


Pong Me, Bro

by LadyDrace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, College, College Student Derek, College Student Stiles, Jock Derek Hale, M/M, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11957982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: Stiles doesn't date jocks, because it seems like all they do is prance around making a spectacle of themselves to impress whoever they're trying to hook up with. It's pathetic, and Stiles isn't into it.Which is probably why it somehow completely escapes his notice that one particular jock is determined to catch his eye.





	Pong Me, Bro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unelore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unelore/gifts).



> So the story is: Unelore was having feels in the Sterek Bar discord chat over the beer pong gifs from the EWS promotion stuff, and so I ended up writing some fic-ish stuff for her in the chat, which she then convinced me to post on Tumblr. As these things go, [it evolved a little bit](http://ladydrace.tumblr.com/post/164593847821/artemis69-acollectionofsterek-ladydrace-so), and I got inspired to write it from Stiles' pov. It SHOULD make sense without having to read the tumblr post, but it's there if anything is confusing.
> 
> So HAPPY BIRTHDAY, UNE! Here's something you didn't really ask for. Hope you like it! :D
> 
> And huge thanks, as always, to my best bro Rita for being a gentle beta for my fragile ass. <3

College is _so_ much better than high school.

 

Not that Stiles is surprised, because not much could be worse for him personally than high school. He'd spent most of it just sticking it out and keeping his head down, getting ready to put a lifetime of being the weird, hyperactive sheriff's kid behind him.

 

Of course, in college there are still cliques, but they're not nearly as harshly divided, and there's hardly any active rivalry or animosity. At least not at Stiles' college, so he counts himself lucky.

 

And best of all; in college he gets _dates_.

 

The same features that got him mocked so badly all through school seem to be a hit here. The same hairy forearms and gawky neck and moles and piggy nose? Now somehow come together to form something that people really want.

 

It does wonders for his confidence, is all he's saying.

 

But if there's one thing that will forever be the same, it's jocks. Ugh. That same familiar cloud of testosterone and pointless posturing reeks out of every frat house Stiles has ever been in, and while he can't argue with the amazing parties that seem to be a frat house staple, jocks never change. So, as a general rule, Stiles steers clear.

 

For some reason, though, jocks seem to like _him_. He suspects it's at least in part related to the fact that he's undeniably twink-ish in a lot of ways, and also possibly extra alluring because he makes no secret of how much he despises jocks, thus presenting another challenge for them to conquer.

 

Again, _ugh._

 

Usually he ignores them. He doesn't go to the damn lacrosse games, he doesn't pay any attention to their stupid peacocking and flexing to impress guys and girls and anyone in-between, and he _definitely_ doesn't date them.

 

Much.

 

Okay, so he'll have the occasional one night stand, but no more than that, no matter how good the sex is. Stiles has _standards_ now, and he's _sticking to them_.

 

The problems only really start when he becomes close friends with Lydia Martin. Because if there's one thing Lydia loves more than math problems and fashion trends it's bulging muscles, so everywhere Lydia goes there will inevitably be a seemingly endless line of parading meat mountains trying to get her attention.

 

They'll be lounging in corridors and on corners, smirking and pointedly removing their jackets to make sure there's no missing their biceps. They'll arm wrestle or do push-ups all over the place, to a point where Stiles sometimes has to actually step over them to get anywhere. They'll carry heavy shit that doesn't need carrying, or loudly declare how much they can bench press, and every so often Lydia will grant them a smile or an appraising look, so it just... never stops.

 

It's actually getting pretty annoying.

 

What's more annoying, though, is that Lydia is mean and plays dirty and isn't afraid of using her superior math skills – not to mention manipulation skills – to win bets with her friends. Which means she can get morons like Stiles, who are dumb enough to bet her anything in the first place, to do stuff for her. Including going to lacrosse games.

 

“I hate you so much,” Stiles says, clutching the stupid cardboard sign. “This is pretty much my worst nightmare.”

 

“Don't be a baby, it's not like I'm asking you to hold it up. Just make sure it doesn't get blown away or get dirty before Jackson scores.”

 

“You're still forcing me to touch something with Jackson's name and jersey number on it. I feel _dirty_ , Lyds.” Stiles shudders, and pointedly does not watch the field. It's bad enough that he's forced to be here out of sheer honor to the betting game – which Lydia totally cheated at, and one day Stiles will prove it – but there's no way in hell he's rotting his brain cells watching grown men chase a ball around.

 

He's self-aware enough to realize that part of his hatred of sports comes from the fact that he never made it onto any team himself in high school, but he also never cared enough to really train for it, so he only has himself to blame.

 

In any case, he spends several freezing hours there on the bleachers, handing Lydia her damn sign every so often, and dicks around on his phone as much as possible. And when they leave Lydia doesn't even grant Jackson as much as a victory smooch, despite literally having brandished a sign cheering him on.

 

“You can't give up the goods too soon, Stiles. You gotta let them know that you're not easy,” Lydia explains, and Stiles is fairly certain she's speaking a completely different language, because _what the hell?_

 

“What's wrong with just telling him you're not into one night stands?”

 

“But I _am_. And I like them hard and fast,” she purrs, causing Stiles to make barf noises, because she's his friend now, and it's _weird_.

 

“Eurgh, too much info.”

 

“Point is, the longer I string him along, the more his hormone levels will build up, and the better the dick will be. It's science.”

 

Stiles isn't entirely sure that kind of science is backed up with empirical evidence, but he's smart enough now to know that arguing with Lydia is only ever to be attempted if you're willing to back up every single one of your arguments with sources and footnotes to rival any thesis. And frankly Stiles isn't prepared to spend as much as five seconds on any argument even tangentially related to whether Jackson Whittemore gets his dick wet or not.

 

Whatever Lydia's reasoning, her results can't be argued with, and Jackson seems to be reaching peak levels of machismo and competitiveness, doing damn near everything in his power to get even the tiniest look or smile from her. Hell, Stiles actually overhears him ask one of his jock friends to “-come on, punch me, I'll make it look good!”

 

Jocks are just completely pathetic.

 

A lot of them _do_ have great frat parties, though. So less than a week later Stiles shows up at Alpha Omega fraternity with a bottle of cheap booze to get him through the door, and settles down to get drunk and maybe have a quick hookup if he gets a good enough offer.

 

 _Alpha Omega_ , though? The meatheads naming this place got seriously lazy.

 

Despite the shitty name the residents seem pretty decent for jocks. They offer no less than three entire kegs of beer, which are free to drink from as long as you add something of your own to the booze pile, and the house is actually pretty clean and nice.

 

In fact, the only real issue Stiles has with this party is that Jackson and his obnoxious lacrosse clique is here. It wouldn't be that much of a problem if tonight wasn't also the night Lydia picked to finally put Jackson out of his misery, and it's obvious that he _knows_ it, ugh. So Jackson is reaching whole new levels of douchy and cocky, and Lydia is being grossly flirty and flattering in a way that makes Stiles wanna barf before his first beer.

 

But whatever. With Lydia being busy, Stiles has more time to cruise around for potential hookups. He has a nice chat with a girl who seems into him, but then she starts hinting she'll only sleep with him if she can bring her boyfriend. And, okay, Stiles is fine with threesomes, they're hot in theory, but in reality? No thanks. So he politely bows out and keeps looking. He talks to another few people without finding anyone he likes, so, out of boredom, he ends up watching the prolonged session of beer pong going on. He's steered clear so far because it wasn't so much a competition as a public exhibition of Jackson's hand-eye coordination while under the influence of a couple of weak beers.

 

However, it seems Jackson is actually letting other people have a turn now, so Stiles takes position at a nearby pillar to watch. Most of the lacrosse players do pretty well. Some are obviously too deep in the drink, and give up after a few misses. Others are freakishly good, and seem to limit their throws purely to give the rest of the players a chance. Not Jackson, though. He keeps throwing as many balls as he can, and flipping his shit like an actual toddler when one ball goes in the cup but then tips it over. At least ten minutes go by while he argues that it totally counted as a point, and while the cups are free, one of his jock friends make a few dozen attempts.

 

And this guy _sucks_ at it.

 

Stiles knows him sort of distantly. His last name is Hale, Stiles knows that much from his jersey at the damn game Lydia dragged him to. First name is unclear, though. D... something. Darryl?

 

In any case, Hale is going at it with steely determination, aiming and shooting over and over again with clenched teeth and forced concentration... only to miss every single shot. And he's not even drunk, as far as Stiles can tell. Just really shitty at it. One can only hope he's better at lacrosse.

 

“Ohh, bad luck, Hale!” Stiles calls out, and Hale nearly drops his beer. Poor guy.

 

A few more attempts, and it becomes clear that one reason he's being so awful at it is that he keeps covertly glancing at Stiles, which is flattering. Hale is pretty good looking but apparently somewhat shy. Stiles can't actually remember ever really noticing him, but for a jock that's a good sign. If Stiles can't remember a single instance of internal groaning over a macho display, then Hale must be a pretty chill type of jock. The fact that he's friends with Jackson is a point against him, though, so Stiles is still a little wary.

 

But the longer he watches Hale powering on with his doomed mission to hit even a single cup, the more Stiles likes him. Because, yes, Hale is undeniably a jock, and also clearly competitive. But instead of flipping tables or being a complete asshole as a reaction to not hitting a single goddamn cup in front of fifty or so people, he just huffs out annoyed breaths through his nose, shakes out his hand and tries again. And again. And again.

 

Hell, Stiles has half a mind to offer the guy a blowjob as a participation prize, because self-control like that in the face of torturous public humiliation deserves _some_ kind of reward.

 

Jackson and Lydia are sloppily making out in a corner by the time Stiles decides to take pity on Hale, because he's obviously gonna keep going until he drops dead or someone stops him. It actually takes him a few more throws to realize that Stiles isn't leaning on the pillar anymore, and it's kind of adorable how he looks around in confusion, only to jump a little from surprise when he realizes Stiles is next to him.

 

“Hey,” Stiles says, making sure to sound appropriately flirty, and it's gratifying how Hale swallows in the face of it. “Darren, right?”

 

“Derek,” Hale says, not even seeming that put out that Stiles guessed his name wrong, too busy taking him in, eyes darting around his face, as if memorizing it up close. Stiles can't think of a single other hookup who's ever been that into his face in particular. The full package, sure, and also occasionally his dick, because – not to toot his own horn or anything – he's got a really nice one. But his face?

 

Fuck it, Stiles is charmed, okay?

 

“Derek,” he echoes, and licks his lips just to see what it does. It makes Derek go red in the ears, is what it does. Oh god, he's cute. “Not a sore loser?”

 

“Well,” Derek says, shifting like he's not sure he wants to answer this one honestly. “Yeah, kind of. I just usually save it for my exercise regimen.”

 

“Well, that explains that,” Stiles says, and gestures at his chest. Which is very nice.

 

Derek's ears go even redder, and Stiles only barely manages to bite down on cooing out loud, because holy shit, this guy's adorable.

 

“I- I didn't think you were into jocks,” Derek stammers, and Stiles grins at him, because clearly he knows who Stiles is and what he's about. There's pretty much no way Stiles isn't gonna take this cutie back to his dorm.

 

So he shrugs and moves in closer, making Derek nervously step back until he hits the wall. “Sometimes I make an exception,” Stiles purrs, and this time Derek actually does drop his beer, but he's too busy staring breathlessly into Stiles' eyes to even notice, and fuck everything else, that is just too goddamn flattering. So Stiles kisses him, and for a beer-flavored and clearly nervous kiss on Derek's part it's pretty amazing.

 

As hookups go it's actually great, and since neither of them even drank enough for a hangover there's slow morning sex too the next day, followed by cuddling and brunch. Stiles feels spoiled rotten, frankly. Which is probably why he kinda forgets for a minute that he usually says a fond farewell after the dick.

 

He kinda forgets for a _week_. During which Derek comes by every day just for a kiss or to take Stiles out for coffee somewhere. Or to share quick and dirty handjobs while Stiles' roommate is out. Derek is somehow really damn good at making Stiles lose all common sense, and nothing makes that more obvious than the fact that Stiles wakes up to Derek's sleeping face Sunday morning, a full week after first hooking up.

 

_Goddammit._

 

“I'm gonna have to date you now, aren't I?” Stiles tells him, and gets a snore in response.

 

“Fucking finally,” is what Lydia says when Stiles tells her later in the library.

 

“What?”

 

“I said _finally_. Derek's been pining for you for, like, a year. Poor guy.”

 

Stiles snorts. “ _Poor guy?_ That's rich coming from the girl who deliberately tortures a guy for weeks just to make the sex better.”

 

“Jackson knew the game,” she says with a shrug. “Which is why it's so sad that Derek went so long just mooning after you. You could have just fucked him last spring if you'd known what you were doing.”

 

“I didn't even know he _existed_ last spring!”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Stiles makes frustrated noises and flails his hands at her, until Derek arrives, sitting down next to him and hauling him in for a kiss hello.

 

“Hey,” Derek says, voice all soft and sweet like always. As if just seeing Stiles gets his blood pressure way down.

 

“Hey, Der,” Stiles says on a sigh, leaning into him, because even if Lydia isn't making sense then at least he can still count on Derek's solid shoulder. “Lydia says you pined for me for about a year.”

 

The shoulder whips away so fast Stiles almost falls on the floor, and he looks up at Derek in confusion. “Derek, what-”

 

“I'm so sorry,” Derek says tightly, getting to his feet and shuffling around like he's getting ready to make a run for it. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, and if you want me to go away then I will-”

 

“Woah, hey, no! Are you outta your mind? Sit down, dumbass,” Stiles orders, and Derek slumps back down like he's had his strings cut. “Now, explain. Why the hell would it make me uncomfortable to know you were into me for a while?”

 

Derek squirms, and Lydia makes a small noise. If Stiles didn't know any better he would have thought it was a smothered giggle. But Lydia doesn't giggle. _Ever_. So clearly he's wrong.

 

“If you got something to add, Lyds, then do it. Otherwise go away.”

 

“This is the library,” she snaps. “ _You_ go away.”

 

Stiles gives her the hairy eyeball, and then ignores her. He's got more important things to focus on.

 

“Derek? Come on, tell me.”

 

Derek squirms for a little while longer and then slumps in defeat. “Well. Uhm. You know how you said a few days ago that... I'm different from other jocks? Because I didn't do stupid over-the-top shit to impress you?”

 

“Yeah? Well, except for the beer pong. But you were under the influence, it's forgivable.”

 

This makes Derek seem even more uncomfortable, and Lydia makes that noise again.

 

“Uhmm,” Derek mutters. “That... wasn't the first time.”

 

Stiles blinks. “It wasn't?”

 

“Erm. No. No, I've uh... kinda been trying to get your attention for a while.”

 

 _And failing, obviously_ , Stiles can't help but think, because he honestly never even noticed Derek at all. “Like when?”

 

Derek looks like he'd really rather not, but he can't just drop a bomb like that and then not follow through. And Lydia also decides to butt in at the perfect time, quirking her eyebrow at Derek in challenge.

 

“Ugh, fine,” Derek says with a groan. “I... did a lot of stuff. Push-ups. Arm wrestling. Carried heavy stuff. Anything I could think of. But you never even looked my way,” he says miserably.

 

Thinking back, Stiles does remember those things happening around him, but he'd never really looked closely enough to realize it was the same one person in a sea of uninteresting jocks doing them, or that it was for his benefit. Those Stilinski observational skills might need a little dusting.

 

“Jackson even offered to fight me once,” Derek continues, “because he knows how much you hate him, and he figured that seeing me kick his ass would get your attention. I don't wanna punch someone for that, though.”

 

“Hey, I remember that!” Stiles says. “I thought it was Jackson still trying to impress Lydia!”

 

“He'd probably have asked me to do the same in return eventually,” Derek huffs, crossing his arms over his chest as if to protect his heart. “So. Now you know. I'm exactly the same as every other jock out there.”

 

“What? No you're not,” Stiles protests, because he _isn't_. He's... _Derek_.

 

“I am. I scored three goals in one game just because you were there. I almost lost us the whole game because I didn't wanna pass the ball.”

 

“But...” Stiles trails off, because Derek _is_ different. Stiles just isn't sure how to put words to it.

 

Luckily, Lydia doesn't know how to butt out, and inserts her own brand of social wisdom into the conversation.

 

“Right, what Stiles is trying to fumble his way through explaining is that you don't see people as vending machines you put kindness or posturing into so sex will come out. Which is exactly why I do such rigorous testing,” she adds with a sharp look at Stiles. “If Jackson hadn't been willing to endure two months of rejection, then he obviously didn't value me any more than a two dollar soda.”

 

“But you guys aren't even _dating_ ,” Stiles points out, because he will never understand how the hell Lydia's social life even works.

 

“So? That doesn't mean I don't want the best of the best for my booty calls. Speaking of which, Jackson and I might not be dating, but I have him on speed dial when _ever_ I need him,” she says, self-satisfaction written on her face.

 

Stiles tries and fails for almost a full minute to come up with some kind of decent response, but eventually gives up. “You know what, I'm not even gonna touch that.” He turns back to Derek. “But, look, she's kinda got a point. What I hate about jocks isn't the sports or the horsing around or even the posturing, though it does look ridiculous. I just hate that sleeping with them always makes you feel fucking objectified. And, well. That didn't happen with you. So there you are. Different.”

 

Derek shakes his head. “I'm not sure I agree with you. I'll probably disappoint you,” he says, sounding so defeated that all Stiles can do is lean in, cradle Derek's face in his palms and just kiss away all that doubt.

 

“If you do?” he says when their lips eventually part. “Then you'll just have to make it up to me. You're a jock, after all. I know you'll debase yourself pretty hard to please me,” Stiles says with a grin that morphs into laughter when Derek shoves him off the chair.

 

Yeah. They're gonna be great.

 

End.

 

 


End file.
